A Good Year
by Everything In Its Right Place
Summary: Hawke is insecure about aging. Fenris reassures her that he is just as attracted to her as he has always been. Post-Game; F!Hawke/Fenris


This was written for the following prompt on the kinkmeme:

_I couldn't find Hawke's specific age but I assume he/she is around 30 or in her/his early 30s by Act III._

_What I'd like to see is a female Hawke, class doesn't matter, worrying that her LI will loose interest in her because she's getting older. Maybe she notices something about her body that's different and she freaks out. LI assures her that isn't the case with sexy times or just cuddling._

Once I read this, I immediately started writing. It took about three hours to complete. It's my very first time writing a real lemon, so I'm a bit apprehensive. I hope you all find it up to snuff.

Warnings: Spoilers for the end game; Lemon

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><p><strong>A Good Year<strong>

Hawke was frowning at her reflection again. Fenris would often find her doing so when she didn't know he was watching. After her bath, pale skin pink from rubbing it with a fluffy towel, the Viscountess of Kirkwall compared herself to the girl she had been thirteen years earlier when she fled from Lothering. She had been purer then, softer. She had known little of the pain of a sword slicing into her flesh, of the altogether different pain of healing magic knitting bones and muscles back together. She had only a few scars then, white polka dots on her fingers from sewing needles, a thin line on the back of her calf from falling with a glass in her hand. When it shattered and cut into her, her father had panicked over the blood. She had cried like the child she was while the green glow of her father's magic restored her to normal save dried blood and the narrow scar. How young she was, how naïve to have thought that such a small wound would kill her when her future self would nearly bleed to death from the Arishok's own blade. She touched the thick mess of scar tissue on her stomach, a few inches to the right of her bellybutton. She knew there was a nearly identical mark on her back, for the Qunari blade had pierced right through her, and she had bled from both sides. Fenris had held her then, and her blood had poured through his fingers as he gripped her stomach. His voice had been raw with desperation as he clung to her, roughly whispering all the truths he was pretending were lies into her ear as Anders worked feverishly to save her.

So many things were different. She had witnessed death after death, slaughtering her enemies with sharpened daggers and deadly poisons, watching helplessly as her loved ones slipped through the Veil leaving their bodies behind for her to bathe in her tears. She had been betrayed by those she trusted, and in the face of that betrayal, she had killed one of her closest friends. All these atrocities, all the responsibility she had shouldered, all the moments of grief and despair had left their impressions upon her in much the same way feet do to a well-traveled path, wearing away the surface bit by bit. Her breasts sagged a bit on her chest. Her hips were wider, fuller. Worry had manifested itself in the tiniest of wrinkles near her eyes, spreading into tributaries as they flowed outward. She reached her hand up to a strand of silvery gray hair, standing out in sharp contrast to the inky blackness around it. She plucked it out as one would a rotten berry in a bushel and eyed her locks as one would the remaining fruit, certain that it would only be a matter of time before they too became unappealing and needed to be thrown out. Her frown deepened as she contemplated the extent of her change. She was no longer that girl fleeing Fereldan. She was no longer the sultry rogue that had convinced a man who hated everything to love her.

She huffed quietly to herself before turning swiftly to her right to fetch her dressing gown. In its place, she found her lover. He stood, frown matching hers, staring at her with guarded green eyes. He hadn't changed much at all, at least not physically. The tan skin between his markings was still petal soft. His lean muscles still rippled beneath it when he moved. Though his hair was an unearthly white, it did not make him look any older, instead making him look ethereal in the soft lighting of the bathroom. Even the careful gaze he was eyeing her with was the same one he always used whenever he was unsure of himself. He was just as perfect as he had always been, and it bothered her that she was not. She hoped that he would continue to be oblivious to her obvious aging, that whatever it was that was causing his expression had nothing to do with him realizing just how much more beautiful young women were than her. She offered him a small smile which he saw right through. His frown deepened, and her smile dropped, taking her gaze with it, so she stared at his bare feet and tried not to voice her concerns lest she make him cognizant of them.

"Lain," he said after a small awkward silence. She closed her eyes, savoring the way her first name sounded in his deep, rumbling bass. "Tell me why you dislike your reflection." It was an order. Fenris was not very good at diplomacy or asking nicely, especially when he wanted answers. The way he phrased it left no room for argument, for excuses about how she didn't know what he was talking about. He knew her better than he knew himself; she was aware that she wouldn't be able to hide her feelings forever.

"Do you wish I was like I was before?" she asked the swirling brands on his toes. His brow furrowed in confusion. She was dodging, as skillful in conversation as on the battlefield, asking him such a vague, confusing question. Before what?

"I do not think the position of Viscountess has changed you much," he tried, "You were already responsible and diplomatic before you took on the role." She wrapped her arms around her naked breasts protectively as if he hadn't explored their every inch with his tongue, hadn't alternately groped and caressed them, hadn't rolled their peaks between his fingers and nibbled at them with his teeth. Wrong answer then. He stepped closer to her and gently gripped her damp shoulders. "Talk to me," he insisted.

"I've –," she cut herself off, took a deep breath. He placed a hand under her chin, and she allowed him to redirect her gaze. His concerned olive eyes pinned her, promised her she could trust him. "I'm much older than I once was, Fenris."

Her voice was soft and hesitant. The former slave could not believe that was the problem plaguing her mind. "Lain, I am not concerned with your age. I do not even know how old I am, merely that I am eighteen years older than I was when I received these wretched markings. My feelings for you will not change just because time passes."

She averted her eyes again, addressing the black cloth covering his right shoulder, "How can you say that when I am changing? Each day I lose a little more of my youth; I become one step closer to being a shriveled, old woman." She tightened her arms around her chest in discomfort at the thought. She never really cared about beauty, but the fear that Fenris, a paragon of unintentional desirability, would find her fading appearance unattractive and leave her made her value what remained more than she ever had when it was at its height.

A demanding grip and sharp tug at her chin forced her gaze to return to him. "How could you doubt my feelings?" he asked, almost hurt, "What have I done to make you think I could ever want anything more than being at your side?"

Shame lapped at her insides. Her arms squeezed to smother it. Her eyes closed to hide from his accusatory gaze. "I'm sorry," she muttered, unable to think of a better response.

Strong arms wrapped around her, pulling her to him. His head rested on her shoulder, and snow white strands of hair tickled her cheek and chin. His lips peppered kisses along her neck and shoulder, and he bit just hard enough at their juncture to elicit a small moan and the dropping of her hands to grip his narrow hips. He breathed more than whispered into her ear, "Allow me to show you just what I think of your body, just what it does to me to touch you."

She nodded without thinking. The feel of him so close, of the hardness in his pants as he melded their bodies together was enough to chase her fears away for the moment. One hand trekked into her hair while the other slipped down to her ass, both grabbing a possessive handful as he growled lightly and bit her again before soothing the spot with open-mouthed kisses. "I don't want some fragile girl who has never seen the battlefield in my bed," he half-growled between them, kneading her in his grip, "I'm not a gentle man. I need a woman who can handle me."

She gasped in pleasant surprise when he swept her off her feet and carried her to their shared bed, plundering her mouth with his skilled tongue as he did so. After laying her down carefully despite his previous claim, he stood to the side of the bed with the fireplace behind him. He slowly unbuckled his pants as she watched, peeling the tight breeches off one leg at a time. All the pale, twisting lines on his body ended their spiraled branches at the base of his erect cock. In the flickering light, with his lust beneath the surface, they glowed slightly, making him seem other-worldly, and she shivered with desire. He walked closer to her, nearing the head of the bed where she was propped against their pillows. "I need a woman who has seen me rip the heart out of another woman's chest and yet does not fear me. A woman who has witnessed my monstrous nature and loves me in spite of it. Do you truly think some _girl_," his voice dripped with hatred and disgust for this imaginary seductress," could offer me that?"

She responded by leaning over and taking his cock into her mouth, moaning around it. Her tongue danced along it even as it struck the back of her throat. He groaned in pleasure and returned his hand to her dark hair as he rocked slowly back and forth. Her hands busied themselves, one using the slickness of her saliva to lubricate it as she pumped his shaft, while the other found his balls, rolling them around along her palm, her skin tingling in the places where his coarse white hair tickled. As always, she lost herself to him, her only thoughts his name in different degrees of desire and satisfaction.

Without warning, he stepped back, causing her to release him with a keening whine. He grinned ferally as he delicately released his grip, careful not to pull out any of the ebony strands. He stalked to the other end of the bed and lifted one of her feet to place a kiss on its arch. She squirmed at the unexpected feeling. "No other being," he said, allowing his adoration of the remarkable woman before him to seep into his voice, "has ever made me feel this way." He lapped and kissed down the inside of her leg, speaking lustily between them. "I've never wanted anyone, anything like I want you."

He stopped at the juncture of her thighs, eyeing her dripping sex like it was some fantastic prize he'd been given by mistake, and he needed to make it his own, so no one could take it back. He glanced up to catch her eyes. "I will never grow tired of this," he insisted before he leaned forward to part her folds and lick at the bud hidden between them. He sucked at her, lapped, swirled his agile tongue, and allowed his teeth to scrape her to hear the screech of his name on her panting lips. He moaned as her cries became louder, more frequent. Her blunt nails scratched at his back, leaving pink trails in their wake. He could feel her convulsing under his ministrations, taste the steady flow of fluids that dribbled onto his chin. He held down her hips when they began to shake and sucked on her as she screamed his name in orgasm. He held her firm as she wiggled and squirmed, trying to get away from his insistent mouth, the pleasure too much for her to bear, and brought her to a second orgasm even before she had fully recovered from the first.

He sat back on his heels and wiped his face with the back of his arm, grinning as he watched her sputter and spasm from her intense climax. He dropped forward, arms braced on either side of her head. He leaned toward her slowly until their lips were a hair's breadth apart. "I will only ever love you, Lain," he whispered into them before sheathing himself inside her. Her head jerked back in pleasure, exposing the milky flesh of her neck and breasts to him. He wrapped his mouth around one of her nipples and began thrusting into her. She was reduced to an incoherent mess as nips to her breasts became more frequent than licks, and his pace increased to just below brutal, affection fueling his restraint just as it did his desire. She gripped at his muscled arms, trying to find some anchor as he pounded into her. His lips left her breasts as her cries became louder to eat them as they streamed out of her mouth. He lifted her knees to her chest and slammed into her even harder while ravaging her lips and battling with her clever tongue. Moments later, his movements became erratic as he tried to keep going even as he orgasmed, moaning her name. The sight of him desperately trying to please her even as his own body fought against it pushed her over the edge, and she tumbled into oblivion with a gasp of his name.

When she awoke, it was still dark. The fire roared cozily in the hearth, throwing deep shadows of a relaxing Fenris and the glass he was holding on the plush carpet. He looked over at her and smiled genuinely. Her heart leapt in her chest. Even with all the time that had passed since she first saw it, his smile still made her feel like it did when she had been graced with it initially. She felt like she was floating in contentment; it gave her a sort of happiness that nothing else could inspire. He held the glass out to her. "Try it," he beckoned.

She grinned and flipped the covers off, approaching him. He gently pulled her down into his lap before handing her the wine. She took a sip and let the dark liquid rest on her tongue, enjoying the sweet, heavy taste of it. "It's really good," she praised.

"Mmmmm," his reply rumbled in his chest behind her. "I have been saving it. Port wine is better when it's aged. I read that vintage ports are aged in barrels for two and a half years before bottling, and generally require another ten to thirty years of aging in the bottle before reaching what is considered a proper drinking age." He grabbed the bottle from the table next to him by the neck and handed it to her.

She examined the label and laughed, "This wine is as old as I am."

"I know," he said into her hair. "It's a very good year."

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><p>Please shoot me a review with your thoughts.<p> 


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